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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480911">The Beach House in Ink</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall'>Englandwouldfall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beach House [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Beaches, Established Relationship, Healing, M/M, Romance, and tattoos, past trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:01:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Castiel is that he’s pretty up for going along with Dean’s ideas, even if they’re freaking crazy. Not always,  but he’s pretty damn likely to hitch his wagon to Dean’s crazy and to go for it, as long as they’ve talked about all the consequences first.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beach House [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>123</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s the Beach House reduced down to to its basic silhouette: that familiar slope of the roof captured in neat, confident lines, the jut of the porch out back with two detail-less deckchairs that spills out into the sea, and Dean fucking loves it. He’s had a version of the sketch stuck on the fridge and a version stuck on the mirror in their bathroom for long enough for him to sit with it, and it’s awesome. He grew up at the Beach House, in a lot of ways. That was where his friendship with Cas knitted closer together, until it wove its way into his identity. The home of those brilliant, light summers where motels and absent fathers seemed far enough away to have fun: the angsty teenage version of falling in love: spin the bottle and Chuck’s whisky: watching that damned bee documentary with the rain pouring down outside: Cas kissing him in the sea: jigsaws, bunk beds, sunblock and popsicles. He’s felt all the emotions he wants to keep in the Beach House: safety and love, frustration and grief, acceptance and contentment. And now some badass artist turned a couple of pictures and Dean’s emailed, waxed poetics about the place into <em> this sketch</em>, and today it all kind of feels like the last step in reclaiming his fucking life.</p><p>

“It hasn’t changed since the last time you looked at,” Cas says. He’s driving, because Dean’s a little jittery and a little in his head about all of it and, apparently, Cas driving his beloved baby is supposed to make him feel better (it doesn’t, but it’s not as freaking terrifying as it was the first time: mostly, now he can say that Cas looks hot driving his car and he tries to focus on that part of it and that part alone). Dean smooths the sketch that used to be on the fridge over his knee and half smiles at it. </p><p>

“It’s,” Dean begins, “It’s awesome, right?”</p><p>

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “It’s beautiful. She’s done a very good job.”</p><p>

“She knows what she’s doing.”</p><p>

“I know,” Cas says, fondly, “I read the website.”</p><p>

“And, you’re not —-.,” Dean begins, “If you think this is a bad idea, then…”</p><p>

“Sam got in your head,” Cas subsidises.</p><p>

“No,” Dean says, “Not exactly. This — this could wind up being a lot for you.”</p><p>

“Dean,”</p><p>

“No, man, I know I’m not exactly a peach.”</p><p>

“I have never wanted you to be anything more or less than yourself,” Cas says.</p><p>

“Well that’s a lot of crap,” Dean says, “You wanted me to be into dudes for like a decade.”</p><p>

“But you were, so it doesn’t count,” Cas says, which is the kind of argument Dean would fight on a better day, “Dean, you are stubborn and rash and risk taking. I’ve told you before: I do not expect you to be a cautious man. If you want to do this, then I want you to. We can deal with the consequences, if there are any,  after.”</p><p>

“Kay,” Dean says, settling back in the seat and watching Cas’s hands on the steering wheel. He has good, solid hands and he drives like he’s being assessed for drivers ed, always. </p><p>

The thing about Castiel is that he’s pretty up for going along with Dean’s ideas, even if they’re freaking crazy. Not always (last week, they watched some cop show and Dean turned to him after they got the handcuffs out and said ‘we should get some of those’ and Cas just arched an eyebrow and said ‘no’ so comically severe that Dean laughed until the next ad break), but —- he’s pretty damn likely to hitch his wagon to Dean’s crazy and to go for it, as long as they’ve talked about all the consequences first.</p><p>

Sam, not so much.</p><p>

“Your brother is understandably risk adverse when it comes to your welfare,” Cas says, without looking away from the road.
</p><p>
And, okay, it’s not like Dean doesn’t get it. He <em>knows</em> it’s kind of insane to want to get a tattoo, when Alistair literally sliced into his skin with knives and needles and malice, and that the chances of him having some twisted, messed up flashback after having to grit his teeth on a table while someone purposefully causes him pain is pretty high 
—- but he doesn’t care. 
</p><p>He <em>wants to. </em></p><p>

Dean explained the reason too, but Sam was still unhappy and reticent and very vocal about being against it. They ended the conversation with Sam rolling his eyes and saying he wasn’t Dean’s minder and Dean could do whatever the hell he wanted (like Dean actually needed fucking permission) two whole months ago, and even though Sam sent him a polite message this morning saying he hoped it goes well, Dean knows that he’s still vehemently against the idea. </p><p>

Dean digs out his phone and types out the most strongly worded version of his argument so far, and clicks send before pocketing the damn thing and turning on the radio.</p><p>

<em>Sam. Every time I look in the damn mirror the first thing I see is the fact that some crazed psycho murderer cut the word ‘worthless’ into my skin. How hard is it for you to understand that I’d rather look at the freaking Beach House instead?</em></p><p>

*</p><p>


The whole thing had come out in the wash a good four months ago, after one games night evening that got bumped to a Friday night which obviously led to Dean and Charlie still drinking and dicking around a good hour after everyone else had left, and after Cas had started the clean up (because he was fed up of listening to them, probably, not because he’s the conscientious member of the household), and she had been going into a lot of detail about a recent hookup, and she asked, deadly fucking seriously, if Dean ‘missed boobs’.</p><p>

“Dude,” Charlie said, when Dean basically laughed out loud, “Boobs are <em>awesome.”</em></p><p>

“You seen Cas, right? Cas is hot as hell.”</p><p>

“I’m not denying he’s dreamy,” Charlie said.</p><p>

“And I’m not denying that boobs are awesome,”  Dean threw back, because apparently Dean was petty freaking drunk too. “But —- Cas is it.” </p><p>

“Okay, Padwan,” Charlie said, “Given you’re so loved up, what’s with the sudden <em>exercise </em>fad?” </p><p>

“What?” Dean asked, thrown, and Charlie had posited her theory that no one took up going to the gym in their mid/ late thirties, unless they’d had a health scare, or were in some way unhappy. Honestly, Dean had found it kind of ridiculous and laughed it off, but after they’d all decided that Charlie was staying in the spare room and Dean was happy-drunk enough to half-heartedly tried to hit on Cas in their master bedroom (which Castiel was obviously having none of, but he did lie and say it was because Charlie was staying rather than the real reason, which was a nice dodging of the truth to avoid bursting Dean’s happy-drunk-bubble), Cas had actually bought it up.</p><p>

“It <em>is</em> very out of character,” Cas said,  folding laundry in the corner of the room while Dean sat in bed and tracked his movements. He glanced over, eyes settling on Dean’s chest for a second, before looking back at his stack of shirts. </p><p>

“What?”
</p><p>
“The ‘exercise fad’.” </p><p>

“Well, sweetheart, forty is closer than it used to be.” </p><p>

“Dean,” Cas said, frowning, “You have spent most of your life calling your brother a freak for running.”</p><p>

“Sammy is a freak,” Dean said, “You don’t think I look good?”</p><p>

“You always look good,” Castiel said, without looking at him. “You’re not,” he began, paused. “You’re not <em>unhappy?</em>”</p><p>
And, honestly, the idea was kind of laughable. Dean has more than he’d ever been bold enough to hope for and, sure, there are some dark, difficult places in his head and in his past, but --- unhappy? With Castiel folding their laundry, Sam a twenty minute drive away and Charlie a little south of passed out two rooms down?</p><p>

“Do I look unhappy to you?” </p><p>”No,” Castiel frowned, “But you do look like an unknowable version of my life partner who went to the gym<em> before work</em> twice this week.”</p><p>

“It’s —,” Dean said, “It’s not about you, I promise.”</p><p>

“But it’s about something,” Cas said, folding up the rest of the laundry and exhaling. “All right.” </p><p>

“Cas,” Dean had said, as Cas crawled into bed and turned off the light without another word.  Cas stayed silent on the other side of the bed, and Dean exhaled and rolled into his space because he’s never really been able to deal with Cas being upset with him, and there’s very few things that he’d let them not just get over before bed. “Cas.”</p><p>

“I suppose I’m idiotic for believing your health reawakening story.”</p><p>

“You’re not freaking idiotic,” Dean said, “And you’re being a goddamn drama queen. I didn’t — Benny wanted some company.”</p><p>

“You don’t go with Benny anymore.”</p><p>

“Cas,” Dean sighed, turning to lie on his back. It had taken him a little while to work it out, anyway, because —- </p><p>

He’d never really looked in the mirror and thought too much about what he looked like. That’s not to say that he was confident, because his crippling insecurity is part of what got him into every mess he’s ever been in, but he wasn’t exactly concerned about what he <em>looked like</em>. He’d kind of always known, broadly, that he’s generally considered attractive. And how he looked has always been a passport to getting what he wants. It was never really about him, it was about knowing what kinda smile would probably get him laid, and how to pull off walking into a room and getting respect (mostly, all those first days of school before they finally stopped moving). There were exceptions to the rule, and most of those were Cas, who somehow had the power to have Dean frowning at a mirror every damn time Cas dated someone in those teenage years. </p><p>

 But — he mostly got what he called confidence (but was probably bravado) from the genetic advantage of being conventionally kinda attractive (or <em> pretty boy </em> as has been directed him at a couple of bars in a way that definitely wasn’t a fucking compliment) and to be active enough, generally, with fixing cars and the rest of it, that he has muscles and the metabolism to eat burgers for breakfast and still look fighting fit.  But —</p><p>

It’s a little jarring to have some of the worst things he’s ever thought about himself cut into his skin for just anyone to look at. </p><p>

And, okay, they’re healed enough that you have to be close to track out the lettering and they could be much worse. In the grand scheme of thing, it doesn’t really fucking matter, but it’s just…. he looks at himself, and he sees what Alistair did. It feels like he’s lost ownership over parts of his own skin, because they’ve been marked and mutilated. </p><p>

He’d never really been self conscious about his body, until it became necessary to avoid <em>that</em> conversation.</p><p>

And, it doesn’t actually matter. He’s lived with it for freaking years and had enough other things on this mind, but… maybe he’s just happy enough that those final areas Alistair still impacts just need fuck off and be erased. </p><p>

He’d only really realised it after a month of going to the gym with Benny, who was replacing drink for exercise and wanted some support, but then it just kinda —-  dawned on him that he was beginning to have proper muscles, and that he liked that, and that he’d stopped avoiding his own eye when he walked past a the mirror without a shirt on. </p><p>

“It’s dumb,” Dean said, “I just — I don’t like how I look.”</p><p>

“What?” Cas asked, turning over. He sounded genuinely kind of surprised, which was a little irksome but mostly expected. Dean knows he carries himself like someone who doesn’t give a shit about what he looks like and that’s true about a lot of things, but — there’s some disconnect. </p><p>

“This is stupid.”</p><p>
“No it isn’t,” Cas said, simply, because Cas has never had time for Dean belittling his emotions.  “Is this —- new?”</p><p>
“Not exactly,” Dean hedged, “It’s not —- I’m not a goddamn fourteen year old girl, or anything. It’s just — topless.”</p><p>

It took Cas a moment. </p><p>

“Your scars.” </p><p>

“Right,” Dean said, “I don’t ——.” Dean began, then swallowed, spurred on by the however many beers and the fact that, now he’d started, it was unlikely that Cas would let the matter go without digging. “Honestly,  fuckin’ hate them. Tried to talk myself into thinking of them as like, I don’t know, some poetic shit about overcoming, but no, I just hate them, and every time I look in the mirror that’s — that’s it. That’s all I see. And sometimes I feel like that’s all <em>you see. </em>This walking, talking sack of scars and —- I guess I liked having some control over what my body looked like, and —- and that’s it. No freaking latent unhappiness, no health scare, I just — want to see something else.”</p><p>

“That isn’t how I see you.” </p><p>

“Yeah,” Dean said, “But you don’t <em>like</em> them.” </p><p>

“The fact that they exist because someone hurt you is hateful.”</p><p>

“They’re ugly.” </p><p>

At the time, the word felt kind of childish, because… it shouldn’t matter. It’s insignificant, compared to everything else. Ugly is cosmetic. It’s <em>small</em>, but ---</p><p>

“Dean,” Castiel said, level, “There is nothing about you that is or could be ugly.”</p><p>

“You wish they weren’t there.”</p><p>
 
“I wish you hadn’t been <em>hurt. </em>”</p><p>

“If you had a magic wand and you could wave it and make them disappear, even if it didn’t stop any of that bullshit happening, and even if it didn’t bother me, you’d want to do it.” </p><p>

“Dean,”  Castiel said, sharper. “Stop trying to corner me into giving the answer you want, or the answer that you don’t want,  but suspect. I’m not going to play this game when I can’t win. This isn’t about what I think, but I am sorry if I’ve ever given you the impression that I am anything but deeply attracted to you.” </p><p>

“You haven’t,” Dean said, stung, because it really, really wasn’t about Cas. Cas is probably the most complimentary person he’s ever been with, and that’s not just because Dean has shitty taste. Cas is pretty damn open about how much he loves him and how much he wants to jump his bones, and he’s never felt anything but affection or affectionate frustration from Castiel. It’s external. “Like I said, this isn’t about you.” </p><p>
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow, when you’re sober.”</p><p>

“Sounds fucking moronic when I’m sober.”</p><p>

“Anything that affects how you relate to yourself isn’t moronic, Dean, it’s important.”</p><p>

“I”, Dean said,  “It’s just so freaking small, when you compare it to everything else.”</p><p>

“Your feelings aren’t ever small,” Castiel said, because he’s always been kind of perfect and lovely, and then he pulled Dean into his orbit and held him in a way that felt like the end of the conversation.</p><p>

It wasn’t, though, because after he said it out loud it felt a lot more real.</p><p>

 A week and a half later he actually talked about it in his Feel your Fucked Up Feelings group (Dean’s name for his Survivor Support Group, that he mostly goes to these days because the facilitator says he is a ‘helpful presence’ rather than because he freaking enjoys it or really needs it) and this guy rolled up his jacket and showed him the detailed, tattooed sleeves curling up his arm, and said that under all that ink was two years of self harm and a sucide attempt.</p><p>

A couple of half hearted google attempts later, he found Jessica Moore — Ivy League art student drop out turned tattoo artist — and her awesome little corner of the internet, where she posted pictures of her scar-covering tattoos for survivors with little bios about what they’d gone through. She’s a freaking artist, sure, but everything she wrote about those people was honouring, respectful and not the least bit patronising, and Dean was basically hooked.</p><p>

He found himself on her ‘contact me’ bit writing some long, complimentary confused bullcrap that never got round to the actual point and subsequently exchanging a couple of emails that still didn’t get to the point, before he finally spilled the beans about what he was thinking to Cas. </p><p>

As fucking per, Cas was incredible. He didn’t fuck around about pointing out the obvious — that this has a high chance of messing with his head, especially given the fact that it would be directly <em>on</em> his goddamn scars  — but he paired that with the fact that they’d worked through enough of Dean’s baggage that it wouldn’t shake them, and that it was Dean’s decision. The knowledge that Cas was prepared to spend however long navigating round the edges of Dean’s freshly churned up trauma because it would make Dean feel more comfortable in his skin in the long run was fucking incredible enough that Dean sent the actual email he wanted to write.</p><p>

<em>So, I’m a survivor with some pretty messed up scars, and I was wondering if we could talk about something to cover them up. </em></p><p>

Obviously, Jess had been expecting it.</p><p>

*</p><p>

“Are you sure that starting an argument with your brother is what you want to do right now?” Cas asks, eyes still fixed on the damn road but somehow still reading Dean‘s body language by proxy. Dean smooths his beach house tattoo sketch over his knee again and sets down his phone.</p><p>

Sam hasn’t replied yet, but Cas has a point. </p><p>The guy has been a fucking angel about all of this. They’ve got a few dozen lists that they’ve compiled over the years, from triggers to things that help with panic attacks, to things that they are and aren’t going to do if Dean’s has a nightmare, or a shitty time in therapy, dating all the way back to that one Cas started in the Beach House a year after Chuck died. There’s the latest, which is the ‘tattoo survival list’ with a whole bunch of dos and donts depending on how this goes. All but the ‘goes much better than expected’ outcome have alcohol and sex written off for at least the next couple of weeks (and Cas generally doesn’t drink unless Dean’s drinking, at lest at home) and the worse case scenario one looks like a total pain in the ass. </p><p>

Cas seems to have decided that the good outcomes are a lot likely to happen if Dean goes into this in serious, happy relaxed zen mode, which means the last week has been full of breakfast  in bed, Dean getting control of the remote and some really stellar morning sex. </p><p>

But —- Sam being unhappy about this is jarring and uncomfortable, and he can’t help that. Maybe he should be better at being able to think about all the rest of it instead. </p><p>

“He’s not my fucking mother.”</p><p>

“No, that would be biologically confusing.”</p><p>

“He doesn’t get to make me feel guilty about my damn decisions.”</p><p>

“I don’t believe that’s your brother's intention.”
</p><p>
“Is this,” Dean begins, thumb running over the edges of the page of the sketches. He’d been so excited about it that he hadn’t really wanted to hear Sam’s point of view, but he does get it. Sam’s talked him through panic attacks and flashbacks and debriefed after therapy and basically put Alistair behind bars (even if he wasn’t actually involved in the later chargers, he definitely steered the investigation in that direction). Then there’s Castiel, whose become a fucking expert on the emotional whiplash that comes with dating Dean. He’s gone with him to freaking therapy and he’s pretended that the blue balls didn’t bother him for months (and maybe they didn’t; he certainly never complained about anything) and he’s never, once, done anything to indicate that he has an issue with the fact that Dean’s hips and torso and stomach are a mess of thin white lines and trauma.  “Selfish?”</p><p>
“In that it is putting yourself own needs first, yes,” Cas says, “But you’re allowed to do that, particularly about this.”</p><p>
“Yeah,” Dean says, “But Sammy —- he went through a lot, back then.”</p><p>
“And so did you,”</p><p>

“You’re not,” Dean begins, looking back at the sketch; the curve of the Beach House roof that’s so familiar it churns up some bittersweet longing that doesn’t really have a place in his life anymore. “You’re not just saying yes ‘cause you don’t think you have a right to say no, right?” Dean says, “Cause if —- If you don’t want me to, cause you, uh, don’t wanna deal with whatever walking bag of baggage comes out the other end, then I wouldn’t do it. You… do know that, right? That you get an opinion.”</p><p>

“Yes, because I am often reticent about my opinions.” Cas drawls, which is true. Their relationship is built on Cas calling him out on his shit and calling him precious and worthy in equal measures. Cas is no shrinking violet, even it’s in love with Dean enough that he’d probably tolerate just about anything. </p><p>
“Uh, on <em>this stuff</em>, you are. Forget about whatever articles you’ve read about ‘reclaiming my fucking body’ for a minute. What do <em>you</em> want?” </p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Dean,” Cas says, “This happened to you over ten years ago.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

It’s weird, because sometimes it still feels fresh and new, but mostly it feels like a different lifetime. He’s pretty sure the healing shtick picked up its pace, some, after Cas; and that’s partially because Cas is awesome and perfect and patient and has been valiantly convinced that Dean isn’t broken, even during that six months in the first year of their relationship where everything got hard, and complicated and tangled up, and he wouldn’t want to diminish what a cosmic impact that Cas-being-Cas has had on his recovery. But, also, he just… started moving forward. Revelling in being in love. Working through the six thousand issues he had about sex. Trusting. Forgiving himself a little more for everything he put Sam through in it all. Feeling confident enough in having his shit together that he started to enjoy his life again. Buying a house and talking about getting married. Actual <em> life </em> happening again, after years of needing to take a time out to be, and feel, and heal.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

A lot of that other stuff is Castiel too, but it’s also Dean. Even if he had called Cas a year out of Alistair’s clutches, when his head was still a mess but he was just about functioning, they couldn’t have been this. Cas would have been there in a heartbeat, he knows that now, but they wouldn’t be having causal domestics about laundry and sofas and Cas driving his car.  </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

When he’s watching Cas chop onions with a look of serious, pinched confusion, as he tries to recreate Mary Winchester’s tomato soup because Dean’s gone down with a cold, in a kitchen that they picked out from a catalogue together, it’s hard to think of a time when he was insecure and broken and vulnerable enough to think <em> it doesn’t fucking matter </em>the first time Alistair hit him. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Different freaking world.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

(And then he looks in the mirror.)</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“That’s ten years of preferring not to look at your own skin,” Castiel says, evenly. “Yes, this could… cause some issues in the short term, but I can’t remember the last time you had a panic attack.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

And the damn thing is, Dean can’t, either.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“But I’m relatively sure that we dealt with it and moved on,” Cas says, “And we will do that again, if it happens for this reason, or any other reason. That is to say —- I want you to be happy, and that includes being happy in your own skin. If you’d suggested this <em>three years ago</em>, then my opinion would have been different, but.... I am in love with you, through sickness and health, through tattoo or not. ”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“And you think it’ll look hot?” Dean adds, because he’d still rather defuse some of Cas’ painful sincerity about things, a lot of the time.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Cas breaks his gaze with the road for a moment to catch his eye.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “Exceptionally hot.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

The lines of the Beach House are supposed to cover up the worst of the words, and the sea is going to cover up the jagged lines that spiral from there and criss-cross his stomach. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

They’re not war wounds. They’re not adventure scars. Alistair did it on purpose, because he wanted those lines to be forever. He wanted to occupy all the spaces in Dean’s head with pain and insecurity and hopelessness. He wanted the word ‘worthless’ to be sliced into his soul, so that it never occurred to Dean that there were people in the world looking for him, or missing him, and prepared to stand vigile while he rebuilt himself from the ground up.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Alistair lost that battle a long time ago.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

*</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Sam calls after they’ve stopped for gas and Cas has disappeared inside to pay.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“I just got your message,” Sam says, in lieu of hello. That probably means that Sam has been at work, which doesn’t exactly thrill him given it’s a Saturday and Dean’s spent a lot of the last couple of years trying to encourage Sam to actually have a goddamn life. Sam’s stubborn, though, and enough like their Dad to have tunnel vision when it comes to stuff like ambition.  </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Okay,” Dean says, picking at a loose thread in his jeans.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“I just,” Sam says, “What do you want from me here, Dean? You’ve made up your mind.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“No, I haven’t.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“Your appointment is in, what, an hour? If you don’t know what you want --”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“- I know what <em>I</em> want,” Dean says, as Cas slips into the driver’s seat and presses a coffee into Dean’s direction. It’s probably decaf, because Cas has been making futile efforts to make sure that Dean is as ‘relaxed as possible’ during this whole thing, and seems to believe that caffeine actually makes a difference. It needles him a little, but he’s accepted that these are decent enough concessions to have Cas around. “But I’m not gonna do it if you honest to god don’t want me to.” Dean finishes, offering Cas an apologetic look that he hope conveys that he knows his ongoing dependence on Sam’s opinion must be grating, particularly when Cas has tried so hard to make everything in his life go right this past week. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>Sam has been there for him, always, and... and that means he’s always going to get a say, in part. Maybe not the final say, but he gets a vote, particularly when it comes to the mess in Dean’s head.</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Dean,”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“No, this isn’t some freakin’ guilt trip,” Dean says, “Don’t mean it like that, Sammy, but you’re --- you’ve had a front row ticket to enough of this shitshow that you get a say, and I’m not gonna hold it against you, but -- I swear, Sammy, I’ve thought this through. This Jess girl specialises in tattooing on scars and she’s… I told her the deal, and she’s come up with some four part plan that means if I drop out after any one of the sessions it won’t look dumb. I’ve got a damn therapist lined up, just in case. Hell, I read that damn mindfulness book you got me. I’m <em>ready</em> for whatever the hell happens.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Sam exhales on the other end of the phone.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Send me the picture again,”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Alrighty then,” Dean says, putting the call on speaker so he can take a picture and send it to him. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“It’s,” Sam says, “It’s a good sketch.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

That’s probably the most positive he’s been about this whole conversation in the last two months.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Sam, it’s awesome,” Dean counters, “It’s the freaking Beach House.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“Your deckchairs are adorable.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“Fuck off.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“You know this is <em>basically</em> a romantic gesture, given this is where you and Cas got together.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>
“Shut your pie hole, Sam, this is --- badass and cool.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Sam half laughs on the other end of the phone.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“I’m not trying to be an ass, Dean,” Sam says, shifting gear, “I just… I didn’t even know the scars bothered you that much. You’ve never --- never said anything about it.”</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Yeah well,” Dean says, because…. Because it’s not like he’s been burying it, exactly, it’s just that… healing is complicated and difficult and long, and every time he makes a stride into being happy he realises that some old hurt still has its hooks in him.  He didn’t really realise how much his issues with sex was robbing him of his happiness until after he’d spent some time in an actual, healthy romantic relationship, and he didn’t really realise how much he didn’t like looking at his skin until he hated it a little less. It kind of went without saying that his scars suck, but it …. It wasn’t the main thing he was focusing on, for a lot of the time, because mostly he was trying to be functional and alive and able to <em>do things</em>. The fear and the shame and the flashbacks were much worse than the physical scars, sure, but now…</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Now it’s just the physical scars he sees every day and, if he can get rid of them, why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t need some fucking memorial of all the shit things that happened in his life, because he’s not going to <em>forget them</em>.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em> 

He doesn’t really regret them, a lot of the time. </em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

Dean’s happy. He never really believed that he was the kind of person that got to be this happy, even if his happiness has edges and teeth, and it’s lined with hard learned lessons and pain. For a lot of his life, he believed that stuff like security and contentment and picket fences were for other, better people and….   he’s not sure how all of those pieces would have fit together if they hadn’t happened exactly like they did.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

 If it would have worked out some other way -- some way where we wouldn’t keep having to be careful about things he’d rather rush right into, and ways where he wouldn’t have the odd nightmare, or sometimes have to explain his limitations in reference to his past -- then maybe he’d take that, but ---</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

He has Castiel driving his car and buying him well meaning decaf coffees. He knows that Sam would do just about anything to keep Dean safe and happy. He knows, now, that Bobby’s opinion is worth more than John Winchester’s ever was. He has friends and he has a life and he has a sketch of the Beach House, steeped in all it’s bittersweet nostalgia, smoothed over his knee.</em>
  </em>
</p><p>
  

<em> And Cas, with a droplet of water running down his cheek in the moonlight, hit the nail on the head; ‘you’re the opposite of worthless’.</em>
</p><p>

“Guess the thing that really gets to me about it,” Dean says, as Cas pulls back onto the highway painfully carefully. There’s a telltale ‘D’ scrawled across the side of his coffee, which Dean’s pretty sure doesn’t stand for his name, but it tastes okay. Dean drops a hand to Cas’ knee as he talks, in a way that he hopes conveys an apology and gratitude and love.  “Is that it’s just <em>not fuckin’ true</em>.”
  

</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>

“Do it,” Sam says, something a little emotional lining his voice, “Get the damn tattoo.”
</em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Dean said you guys were getting married,” Jess says, casually,  for all the world like she’s not wiping down his skin, ready to actually <em> do this</em>.</p><p>

He’s talked about it so much, with various different people, that it feels kind of weird that they’re finally here. </p><p>

They’ve already done a consultation face-to-face, because Jess insisted that she didn’t wanna get too far into designs and ideas until she’d had a chance to actually <em>see</em> the skin, because tattooing on scarring is pretty complicated, even without the background of serious trauma. He has a test circle on the back of his foot to see if he can hack the pain (although, Jess has warned him that it will probably hurt more on the actual scar tissue, which should be a riot; still, it’s not his pain threshold that he’s particularly worried about, it the bullshit associations which is <em>also</em> more complicated on the the scar tissue). He suggested getting the word ‘Cas’ tattooed on ass instead for the test, which had made Jess laugh and Cas roll his eyes, and he likes her a lot. </p><p>

Jess is basically brilliant. She learnt all of this stuff because her sister walked out of a nasty bout of depression with some serious self-harm scars, and she didn’t trust anyone else to treat her with the dignity and respect she deserved while it was covered up. She’s bright and breezy and yet somehow still seems to get the serious stuff, and Dean’s almost as impressed with her attitude as her artwork.</p><p>

He told her <em> a lot</em> of the pieces of his story over their emails and conversations out of the practicality of it all, and she’s been basically amazing. Jess’ four stage plan for his tattoo (which Dean’s pretty freaking sure is slower than she’d normally work) works out that it’ll look okay after any of their sessions, just in case Dean’s fine during, but starts having nightmares or flashbacks or whatever the hell else after, and Dean’s not sure he knows how to express how grateful he is for her patience and the easy way that she’s adapted to make all of this work, and the research she must have done into all of this to get such a kick ass plan. </p><p>

Dean doesn’t really remember telling her they were getting married, but probably it was buried somewhere in their plan for Cas coming along and be there for all of it, even though Jess doesn’t usually let friends and family this close into the peanut gallery.</p><p>

“Some point,” Dean says, “We haven’t worked out the details yet.”</p><p>

“Gonna start now -- okay?” Jess says, and then the metallic buzz of the machine starts, and Dean’s brain jars for a moment. “When d’you meet?”</p><p>

“Middle school,” Castiel says, wordlessly moving closer and threading their fingers together as she starts and, right, <em>talking.</em> The machine is quiet enough that they can still talk, but not quiet enough that he can pretend it’s not happening which is probably what he’d like to do, but he is so damn prepared for this. “Dean was the ‘cool’ new kid.”</p><p>

“Right,” Dean says, “They figured I’d behave if they sat me next to the nerdy kid in a trench coat.”</p><p>

“They were, in fact, wrong,” Cas smiles, and Dean looks away from Jess and concentrates on Cas’ crinkled smile and those blue, blue eyes. The pain… is okay. It <em>is</em> worse than he remembers the pentagram on his chest being (the test was done quick enough that he didn’t get to a firm conclusion), but that was a long damn time ago, and this skin is damaged, but it’s—- it’s fine. Manageable.</p><p>

And, he remembers meeting Cas so, so well. </p><p>

Cas had been a serious little kid back then, all buttoned up and a lot more formal than Dean, in his goodwill t-shirt and his jeans that had been ripped in the old fashioned way. He’d looked up from his neat little notes and said ‘Hello Dean’. This predated the deep voice and Dean mostly remembered that Cas sounded resigned, like he assumed Dean’s next step was to knock his books off the desk and demand his lunch money.</p><p>

And, honestly, he might have done it on a different day, but he’d settled on the ‘fly under the radar’ method of dealing with this new school. It was the third or fourth one of the school year and he had no reason in the world to think that this one would stick, even if they were closer to ‘Uncle Bobby’ and even though they were renting an apartment rather than a motel. Dean had convinced himself that he didn’t really care, either way, and that planning to stick around usually led to disappointment, and Sam and Dad fighting, so he just ignored the weirdo little kid in the trench coat completely and sat down. </p><p>v

He got out a pen and an old, half used notebook of Sam’s out and started writing out the lyrics to ‘Ramble on’ to make it look like he was doing something. He can’t remember what class it was, because he paid so little attention to what the hell he was supposed to be doing, but he does remember Cas’ blue, blue gaze watching him.</p><p>

He kinda figured he was being judged for his shitty work ethic and then his pen ran out of ink and serious, resigned little Castiel wordlessly passed him a new one, and that was that. Friends. Life trajectory changed, permanently. </p><p>

“Hey, you didn’t see my transcripts from my other schools,” Dean says, “I behaved.”</p><p>
“I’d never received a detention before I met Dean.”</p><p>
“M’ worth it, though.”</p><p>
“Of course.”</p><p>
“I get it,” Jess says, “You lightened him up a little, and you made sure he actually went to class.”</p><p>

“Most of the time,” Dean says, “Who needs math, anyway?”</p><p>
“You’re a mechanic,” Cas deadpans.</p><p>
“We doing okay?” Jess asks.</p><p>
“Yup.” Dean says, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hand and breathing; in, out.</p><p>
“So you’ve known each other a long time.”</p><p>
“Uhuh,” Dean says, “ but we — we’ve been together, like, four years.”</p><p>
“That’s a long time to be friends first.”</p><p>
“Yeah, but we had a hiatus,” Dean says, “Didn't talk for like, seven or eight years, and I guess that made it a little — easier, to break out of that whole friend zone thing. Plus, that point it was so fucking obvious that we’d been pining over each since we were freaking teenagers that it all just… fit.” </p><p>
“You’re sweet.”</p><p>
“Shut up,” Dean says, but he runs a thumb over Cas’ knuckles and sucks in a breath anyway.</p><p>
“So tell me about getting married.”</p><p>
“We really haven’t worked out any of the details,” Cas says, “So there isn’t much to tell.”</p><p>
“Man, the house was enough freaking stress to last me for a few years. We — we’ll get there, some point,” Dean says, gritting his teeth against a particularly sharp jolt of pain, and shutting his eyes. “We bought a house last year,” Dean says, because it’s better to keep talking, and he appreciates that’s what Jess has been trying to do. “And it turns out we don’t agree on a whole lot about, well, anything.” </p><p>

It was kind of surprising that it was a surprise, actually. He’s hated every single place Castiel has ever lived, it just didn’t occur to him that Cas <em> choose </em> all those slick, cold lines that always read as soulless to Dean. In retrospect, they come from different freaking worlds, and they’ve never agreed about music or movies or most food or wine vs beer, either. It took them eighteen months to decide on a place to buy, and then they spent a year fighting like cats and dogs over every single item of furniture, till they worked out a middle ground that kind of worked. Honestly, Dean kind of loved every second of it: at the end of the day, he’d rather spend three weeks battling it out about the benefits of fabric vs leather sofas, than have a version of Cas that swallows his opinion because he thinks it’s a problem if they disagree (although, he cannot goddamn believe that Cas is the kind of person who doesn’t like leather sofas; he flat out does not get it, even if he eventually conceded to several of his points and even though he does like the one they eventually got). He <em>likes</em> arguing with Cas, and he basically loves their new home, even if it isn’t for one second what he’d have chosen if he’d been in this alone. It’s basically full of their second and third choices, and that’s okay. Life is like that. Their lives, especially.</p><p>

“Let’s take a break,” Jess says, and Dean releases the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. </p><p>“Coffee?”</p><p>

“Yeah,”</p><p>
“That would be good.”</p><p>
“Make mine decaf,” Dean says on an exhale, and Cas smiles at him like he’s done something remarkable. It’s that same smile that Dean got when Cas bloodied his knees, aged twelve, and Dean stayed with him rather than running off to the beach, and the same smile he got when, after three days of arguing about what kind of white goddamn paint they wanted, Dean ended up buying Castiel’s first choice rather than their compromised choice. It’s that ‘you still surprise me, Dean Winchester’ smile that’s always been worth the effort of winning one.</p><p>

“So this is the first place that we could stop,” Jess says, wandering back out to the front of the shop, where she has books of designs and soft, leather sofas. She inclines her head as a gesture to follow, and Dean is not against getting off this damn table. She’s gonna have to do the whole clean up thing again, but—- if she’s willing to be this careful, he’s going for it. “So I figure we take a minute. See how you’re doing.”</p><p>

“M’okay,”  Dean says, because he is. He’s not necessarily having fun, but he is okay. </p><p>

“Great,” Jess says, as she starts making coffee. “So, my sister —- she runs this online website thing, nowadays. Recovery stories, and,” Jess continues, flipping the book of designs shut and using it as a coaster. The coffee rings indicate that this isn’t the first time, either, and Dean kind of loves that she can be so damn careful about designs and art and people, and haphazard enough her space. “Obviously no pressure — but… You seem pretty great. Seems like you might have something to say.”</p><p>

“I dunno,” Dean says, because he’s not sure about all of this stuff. Sam has suggested he do something like this before: write it all down or try and help other people who’ve had shitty, dark things happen to them, but… Dean’s not the words guy and he doesn’t really know how he feels about it, anyway. Keeping at his Feel Your Fucked Up Feelings group is one thing, because he remembers how encouraging it was to see someone further down the line of healing when he first started going, and he gets that his presence there is sometimes good for him but a lot of times good for the other people, but he’s spent so much of his goddamn life talking about what happened to him out of necessity, he just doesn’t really feel like keeping at it. He wants to do <em> normal shit</em> in his free time, like games night and Netflix marathons and laundry. He doesn’t really want to come home from work and answer emails from people who were also victims of horrible, life changing crimes, and are working out that transition from victim to survivor. Maybe that’s selfish, but mostly he wants to forget about being a survivor, too, and just be a person. “Cas though — you should get him writing something for you. He’s, you know, done his unofficial PHD in researching ways to help me with my shit, and he’s a part time lawyer known locally as the Go To Guy for domestic and sexual abuse stuff.”</p><p>

That had happened by accident. Cas had been a week away from giving up his license to practice all together, when some new-ish woman at Dean’s support group (he sacked off going to all male ones years ago, because there’s not all that many of them due of the statistical reality of there being a lot more women who relate to some of what’s happened to him, and the one he did go to was mostly about feeling emasculated by what happened to him, which… he’d never thought about it like that. He’d always thought about it being fucking terrifying) was talking about how she was finding some of the court stuff hard and how she felt guilty and upset that she wasn’t doing well with it, and Dean just sat back and said ‘<em> dude, it sounds like you just need a better lawyer’</em>.  Dean went with her to Cas’ “office” (think spare cupboard in a church building with a desk) and, by the end of the day, Cas was taking over as legal counsel. </p><p>

He’s not a miracle worker, so only some of the chargers stuck, but he’d prepared her for that with the patience and deliberate sincerity that some overworked city appointment legal counsel would never have the time to do, and then three other people from the group were asking Dean if Castiel would look at their cases, and then some woman at the police legal department started recommending him, and it all just happened. </p><p>

Now, he operates a tiny, mostly pro bono little operation however many days a week he’s needed, alongside his just barely paid position as ‘Soup Kitchen Coordinator’ that the church that runs it were desperate for him to take after eighteen months of volunteering. Dean’s relatively sure that Cas puts most of the money he earns back into the damn thing, but —</p><p>

Cas made some ‘ethical investments’  (whatever they fuck that means) when it looked a lot like paid work wasn’t going to happen for a while that apparently ‘pay well’, and they paid for the house outright, which means their expensive are pretty low. </p><p>

In a technical sense, the house belongs to Cas. Dean turned down the offer of legally fixing it otherwise, because that’ll mostly all sort itself out when they get married, and it felt weirdly like he was taking advantage before that point. Dean mostly considers that to be Cas’s financial obligations to their future fulfilled, even if Cas has different expectations about ‘money for retirement’ and ‘potential kids college funds’, which are things that have never existed in the Winchester household.  Still, they’re more comfortable than Dean ever expected to be and Cas seems to genuinely like the Soup Kitchen, and gets a sense of purpose and duty from the legal stuff and that’s as close to happy Dean’s ever seen him about his working life. </p><p>

(He hopes that Cas doesn’t think that the vagueness of their marriage plans is because Dean’s trying to get out of the money stuff, because he mostly gave up caring about that a long time ago. It’s just that it doesn’t feel like the right time, yet. There’s always been more pressing pieces of the jigsaw piece to sort out, like this tattoo, or the fact that Dean kind of believes that Sam is unhappy. He is going to marry Castiel, at some point, but they have the rest of their lives to get to it. It doesn’t change anything). </p><p>

“Dean’s overrepresenting me,”</p><p>

“Nope,” Dean counters, “Dating someone whose been through trauma isn’t a freaking picnic. Reckon a lot of the people who are reading this stuff are family and friends, trying to understand what they can do to help. Cas would be great, and he can write.” </p><p>

“That sounds great, actually,” Jess says, “If you wanted to write something…” </p><p>

“He’ll do it,” Dean answers for him, because he really should. Honestly, a lot of what helped him - especially with the sex stuff - was having an extra pair of eyes to look out for triggers and warning signs. He’d not the guy he was before Alistair, but he’s also not twenty three and a total dumbass, and —- and some of accepting that he can’t relate to his own sexuality in exactly the same way that he did before, was being able to trust Cas enough to outsource some of the mental work for all of it. <em> Someone</em> has to think about how much he’s drank, and if he’s had a crappy day in therapy, and if what he wants on a base level is actually a good idea, but it doesn’t always have to be Dean. It is, a lot of the time, but there’s another set of eyes to pick things up when they fall through the cracks. <em> That’s</em> that beauty of sex in the context of partnership and love: that Cas is more the prepared to burden himself with understanding and knowing all the things that happened to him and how they relate to this present. Four months of both of them sitting in goddamn therapy as Dean talked out all of it (and Dean insisted that Cas had his own private sessions, too, because none of those conversations were exactly a good time), and then some more time while Dean worked out that a lot of getting out of his head was giving up control, and that was trust, and then everything sort of came together. Now, it’s just so ingrained in how they relate to each other that it doesn’t really feel like anyone’s putting in work. It just happens. </p><p>

And there are some people who don’t have someone as conscientious, intelligent and as committed as Castiel. And there are people who have the life partner, but not the road map, and that is a goddamn tragedy.  </p><p>

“So Jess,” Dean says, taking a sip of his decaf coffee, “You seeing anyone?” </p><p>

“Perhaps,” Cas says mildly, “I’ve changed my mind about the ‘Castiel’ ass tattoo.” </p><p>

“You know what I mean, jackass.” </p><p>
“Like anyone could disrupt this,” Jess says, waving a hand between them with a smile. “But, no. It’s just me and my dog right now.” </p><p>

“So...I’ve got this brother,” Dean says. </p><p>
“He as cute as you?”. </p><p>
“Dunno about that, but Cas said he’s hot.” </p><p>
“That’s not what I said,” Cas says, “And I also made this remark four years ago, when I still believed you were straight. I think you need to let it go, Dean.” </p><p>

“You’re <em>way</em> out of his league, obviously,  but he’s —- he’s this pretty successful lawyer, type, and he could use someone as badass as you to lighten him up.” </p><p>

“He’s also dating someone,” Cas points out.</p><p>
“Right, like that’s gonna last,” Dean scoffs, “And some corporate, stuffy chick is just gonna turn him into — well. A corporate stuffy not-chick. Don’t listen to this asshat, Jess, Sam is — the best brother. And, he’s always wanted a dog, so... perfect.” </p><p>

“I do like a man in a suit,” Jess half smiles. </p><p>

“All right,” Dean says, “This is gonna happen.” </p><p>
“After you break up your brother's current relationship.” </p><p>
“Yep,” Dean says, popping the P. “Not like he doesn’t interfere in my life all the damn time.” </p><p>
“I’ll look forward to it,” Jess says, with a wide, bright smile, that’s coloured with amusement. “All right —- you good to continue?” </p><p>

* </p><p>

It’s okay, for about forty five minutes. </p><p>

He starts about by telling Jess a whole load of childhood stories about the Beach House, which are ostentatiously a way of telling her as much as possible about Sam. Somehow, that turns into Castiel talking about his brothers and it’s a little too easy to tune out because he’s heard all these stories before, and focus on what’s happening instead. </p><p>

Jess is tattooing directly on the word ‘worthless’. </p><p>

At the point that Alistair cut the words into his skin, Dean didn’t know what fucking day of the week it was, and he didn’t have to do anything except fix him with that look and say ‘hold still’, and Dean just did it. He lay there and breathed with his fists clenched and he only half felt the physical pain, because he was pretty damn good at dissociating by then. That day, he thought about Sam, a pre-teen, angry-at-the-world-Sam, who argued with John Winchester and rebelled against Dean’s authority: <em>you listen to Dad’s music, you wear Dad’s jacket, why should I listen to you when you’ve always been too scared to have your own opinion? </em>Worthless; letter by letter. Cut by cut. </p><p>

“Dean,” Castiel says, gentle and steadfast as ever, “Do you need a minute?” </p><p>

“Uh,” Dean breathes and, yeah, he needs a goddamn minute.  </p><p>

This was probably a really dumbass idea. </p><p>

“No worries,” Jess says, although Dean’s pretty much just focusing on Cas’ hand in his, his voice, his just general being in his periphery.  He feels a little nauseous and by the time he’s processed and breathed past that, they’re alone in the part of the room, while Jess tidies up the front of the shop.  </p><p>

Dean sits up. </p><p>

“Are you all right?” Cas asks, in that rough, low gravel that’s always, always done things to him. Cas’ voice breaking basically ruined his life. He never recovered from it, really, and he doesn’t want to. He wants to be ruined by the rough timber of Cas’ voice for the rest of his life. </p><p>

“Mhm,” Dean mutters, running a hand over his face and exhaling. “Whoever tells you it doesn’t hurt is talking out their ass.” </p><p>

“I distinctly remember you telling me that this didn’t hurt,” Cas says, leaning forward to touch the pads of his fingers against his chest, and the outline of his pentagram. He was twenty two, then. Sam had just turned eighteen and they went together. Cas was finishing college, miles away.  </p><p>
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, “Sue me.” </p><p>
“This seems like a bad use of my legal skills,” </p><p>
Dean huffs a laugh at that and swings his legs round the table so that he’s facing Cas. “I distinctly remember you telling me it didn’t hurt, because you sent me a photo of yourself topless.” </p><p>
“You asked what it looked like, jackass.” </p><p>
“It was a very nice photo,” Cas says. </p><p>
“It wasn’t,” Dean counters, because he knows he took five or six and felt stupid insecure about how he looked given all he was doing was sending a picture to his just-friend, who’d seen him sunbathe enough times that a picture of him topless wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. In the end he took the final one and sent it without looking, and he regretted it after, “I remember the picture.” </p><p>
“Hmm. I probably still have it.” </p><p>
“Freaking stalker,” </p><p>
“I don’t delete things,” </p><p>
“No, you just buy a new phone, you freak,” Dean mutters, resting their foreheads together, “Is this fucking stupid?” </p><p>
“Perhaps,” Cas says, “But it looks incredible.” </p><p>

He hasn’t actually <em>looked</em>, because that didn’t feel like it would <em>help</em>, but now he drops his gaze down to his skin and --- </p><p>

There’s the blocked, steady outline of the Beach House on his skin. It’s not filled in, yet. It’s mostly going to be a silhouette, as that was the best way to cover up all of the lettering of the scar, and Jess said that she wanted to keep most of the lines that needed to be straight on un-scarred skin, because it would look better in the end. She’s started some of the detail of it, though, right on top of the ‘R’ (which is probably the reason he needed a minute, fucking hell). </p><p>

Already, you can’t really read it anymore. He can <em>see it</em> because he knows what it used to be, but --- It’s gone. </p><p>

“Holy shit,” </p><p>
“Mhmm. This is usually what I think when I look at you, but it's nice that you share my sentiments.” </p><p>
“You,” Dean says, “You can’t read it.” </p><p>
“No,” </p><p>
“Fuck,” Dean exhales and, shit, it feels like something sharp and painful has been dislodged from his throat. He kind of wants to laugh, even though it’s completely inappropriate, but -- </p><p>

<em>Ten Years</em>.  </p><p>

Jesus. Ten goddamn years.  </p><p>

The rest of his skin is still kind of a mess, but it’s <em>that</em> one that’s always had the ability to spark up that sad frustration and regret, and it’s gone. He doesn’t <em>like</em> any of them, particularly, but…  </p><p>

Ten fucking years. </p><p>

“What are you thinking?” Cas asks. </p><p>

“I’m thinking,” Dean breathes and, <em>fuck</em> he’s so goddamn happy they’re here right now that it feels like his whole body is viberating with it, and he’s not sure what to do with. He’s not really sure he’d realised how much he cared about this until <em> right freaking now</em>“I’m thinking that I’m gonna need you to kiss me and then I’m gonna need you to bring Jess back here, to get this thing done.” </p><p>

* </p><p>

When they were kids, there was always this feeling of lightness that descended on him when they hit the road to the Beach House. The year after he inherited the Impala was the best, because it meant that instead of being squashed in the back of the car with Chuck, or Michael or Lucifer, Dean got to drive the three of them all the way there. Chuck insisted on them all stopping at the same rest stops as him in an uncharacteristically-heavy-handed-parenting moment, but it was a good five hour drive, and Dean<em>was</em> seventeen. Cas won the battle for shotgun by a landslide, and lost the battle for picking the music by an even wider margin, and they hit the highway singing <em>Born to Be Wild</em>. That year had <em>sucked</em> because Cas had spent six months of it dating this total douchebag who wore eyeliner and skinny jeans while Dean tore himself up trying not to be dick about it, when all he really wanted to do was yell <em>maybe I’m not good enough for you, but this asshat is even worse</em>. College was looming and John Winchester was in the wind and Dean was barely passing school and it all felt heavy and difficult, and then they hit the road for four whole weeks at the Beach House, and all of it melted away. </p><p>

(That summer was still hard. He and Cas argued a lot about almost everything and Sam was a little impatient with Dean’s sulking. It was the summer of the infamous game of Spin the Bottle, which made the perceived unrequited thing harder to ignore and harder to swallow, but he didn’t know that on the way there). </p><p>

He gets a similar kinda feeling of lightness as he walks out of Jess’ tattoo studio after the first of his four sessions. </p><p>

This tension and weight that he didn’t even realise he was carrying has been lifted.  </p><p>

“Keys,” Dean says, pausing at the driver’s side of his baby. Cas digs them out of his pocket and throws them in Dean’s direction. Dean catches them easily and hesitates before getting in the car, because he doesn’t want to go home yet. It feels like a waste of a really good mood. He feels kinda <em>alive</em> and good in ways that he didn’t know he was missing, and turning their wheels back in the direction of a Saturday night of bumming around the house just feels like a damned shame. </p><p>

 “You know what we should do,” Dean says, excitement catching in his voice slightly, as the idea occurs to him. “Let’s go to the Beach House. We’re nearly half way there.” </p><p>
“What?” Cas asks, frowning at him. </p><p>

“Let’s just — go. Stay the night. Come home tomorrow. Whose week is it?”  </p><p>
“I,” Cas says, tilting his head, “I don’t know, but no one’s there.” </p><p>
“Perfect,” Dean says.  </p><p>

Cas looks at him for a moment. That blue, serious gaze is exactly the same as it was when they were in middle school: the sea on a cloudy day, piercing and intense.  </p><p>

“Allright,” Cas says, settling back into the passenger seat and digging out his phone, “I’ll call Hannah.” </p><p>

“Awesome,” Dean says. Honestly, he was expecting more resistance. Halfway is only semi accurate, because at least the last forty minutes of the drive was in the wrong direction. It’s still a three and a half hour drive and they don’t have any overnight stuff — no change of clothes or freaking toiletries - so it is kind of stupid, but Cas is remarkably good at going along with Dean’s crazy ideas.  </p><p>

“Text Sam and tell him it was okay,” Dean says, as he fumbles around for one of the old tapes under the driver's seat and finds the one he’s pretty sure they listened to on that first drive to the Beach House, then turns the engine over to pull out of the parking lot.  </p><p>

Cas hums his assent and types out something a lot longer than Dean’s suggestion, which probably means that Sammy is getting the full debrief. Good.  </p><p>

Cas leans forward and pauses ‘Born to be Wild’ just after they’ve hit the highway, phone to his ear. </p><p>

“Hello, Hannah,” Cas says, “Dean and I are driving in the direction of the Beach House, and want to stay the night… no, we are not intending to elope. Yes, I am very sure…. Hannah. <em> Even </em> if it would mean you winning the marriage bet, we are still not going to elope. Firstly, in order to make that legal we would have to —— yes. I do know that you are a lawyer and are fully aware of the legal intricacies of matrimony, which is why….” </p><p>

“Focus, Sunshine.” </p><p>

“Right,” Cas says, catching his eye and smiling, “Are we able to stay at the Beach House tonight? Hm…? We are about three hours away… we were in the area. Yes, I had assumed that the housekeeper wouldn’t be able to come within the next three hours, we will manage,” Cas continues, rolling his eyes. The picture of Dean‘s tattoo is still on the dashboard and Dean smiles at it and rolls back his shoulders. That’s on his <em>skin</em>. Or at least, the beginnings of it is. “.... How long did Gabriel entertain a guest for?” </p><p>

Dean raises an eyebrow. </p><p>

“Four days? Gabriel? Just Gabriel and guest? … Hannah, Gabriel does not have any business associates that he would need to entertain for four days. In fact, he doesn’t have any business associates <em>at all</em>, because he does not pay well with others.” </p><p>

“They better start a Gabriel marriage bet, too,” Dean mutters. Cas catches his eye at that and something in his gaze softens. </p><p>

“Regardless,” Castiel says, “We do still want to use the Beach House tonight… Yes. Thank you, Hannah,” Cas says, hanging up and turning the music back on. </p><p>

“Gabriel having a dirty weekend, huh?” Dean asks, “Man, that’s a gnarly thought.” </p><p>

“Two weeks ago,” Cas says, “Which was the last time anyone was there.” </p><p>
“We’ll bleach the place.” </p><p>
“The housekeeper came after he left,” Cas says, “But yes, this seems wise.” </p><p>

“Man, I love this song,” Dean says, tapping his fingers against the wheel as the track changes over. </p><p>

Cas, perfect as ever, turns it up, and Dean’s singing ‘Ramble On’ at the top of his lungs with Cas watching him with that unguarded, affectionate look, as they pull onto the familiar stretch of Highway that leads to the Beach House.  </p><p>

* </p><p>


Dean has his own key to the Beach House, these days, but he pauses to take a picture of the place framed by the dwindling-blue sky and send it to Sam, first.  </p><p>

They made good time, even if they stopped at the shop on the way to pick up some essentials (mostly still hot pizza, food for breakfast tomorrow, coffee and toothpaste), and it’s still bright enough outside that he doesn’t bother turning on the light as he steps into the corridor. </p><p>

He steps past the dresser full of Milton-decorated-crockery and the big, framed picture of every single Milton, Milton plus one and the Milton’s kids that was taken the summer before last, on that awful, stuffy day where everyone descended on the place all at once to commemorate Chuck’s would-be-seventieth Birthday.  </p><p>

(And next time Dean gets sucked into a fully loaded Milton weekend he will, at least, be able to take his fucking shirt off when they’re all hanging round the beach. He won’t have to be paranoid about triple checking he’s locked the bathroom door or sleeping without a t-shirt on. He can walk back from a shower in just his jeans. It’ll be a goddamn revelation.) </p><p>

The banisters don’t creak, anymore, but the floorboards still do: Dean’s always found it reassuring that Anna either couldn’t or didn’t want to fix all of the little quirks of the place, even if he likes a lot of improvements. </p><p>

They eat the pizza at the kitchen table while it’s still just-about-hot and then Dean disappears to peel off the dressings and clean his tattoo.  </p><p>

(He didn’t take the after care instructions very seriously the last time he did this, but this is complicated enough already and Dean’s a lot more sensible than he was however many years ago. He read Jess’ instructions six times over and set regular cleaning time alarms on his phone). </p><p>

After, he brings out a bottle of Chuck’s whisky and two glasses out by the pool.  </p><p>

Castiel has set up the deckchairs and they drink to Chuck, just like they always do the first night in the place, now.  Dean’s realistic enough about all of this that he poured himself a barely-there measure, but he still waits out the moment, as Cas drinks his, slow, and looks out over the sea. </p><p>

It’s April, which means that the pool’s still covered and the air still has a little bite. </p><p>

“Can I see?” Cas asks, nodding towards Dean’s torso, after the moment has settled and dusk is beginning to bleed into the sky. Dean stands up to pull his t-shirt off so that Cas will actually be able to look. </p><p>

He’d spent a good few minutes just <em>looking at it</em> upstairs, while Cas cleared up the pizzas, because ---- </p><p>

He <em>loves</em> it. It’s not all there, yet, but he’s got the porch and their deckchairs, looking out over what will be the sea. It looks a little raw, still, but --- it’s better than he believed it would be. Jess had been pretty real with him that it was hard to know how well it would all work out and, if you touch it, you can still just about trace out the letters…. But, that’s okay. You press hard enough on any of Dean’s issues and pain and fear start leaking out, but he’s learnt which parts of it’s life it’s worth pressing, and which it’s better to skim round the edges. </p><p>

“You are,” Cas says, serious and compelling as ever, gaze heavy enough on Dean’s skin that he can almost feel him checking him out. “Gorgeous.” </p><p>

“Much hotter than Sam, right?” Dean smiles, stepping into Cas’ space. </p><p>

“Will you <em>ever</em> let me live this comment down?” </p><p>
“You sat right here, in this chair,” Dean says, smoothing his hands over Cas’ shoulders and smiles, “And said my brother was hot.” </p><p>
“In my defence,” Cas says, hand settling on the small of Dean’s back. “Had I not ruffled your ego with what was an <em>intellectual observation</em>, this might never have happened.”  </p><p>

That feels like a stretch. Dean’s more or less convinced that they were inevitable the second Castiel threw his arms around him at Chuck’s funeral, but he’s willing to let it slide in the name of humour. </p><p>

“Intellectual my fucking ass,” </p><p>
“Is it?” Cas asks, mild and perfect, “I am intimately acquainted with your ass, and I have never noticed it’s intellectual capabilities.” </p><p>
“Yeah, cause you’re not usually thinking with your upstairs brain at that point, Cassanova.” </p><p>

Cas laughs. A bright, lovely thing that Dean’s sure you’d be able to hear from the beach, if you listened hard enough. </p><p>

“So,” Dean says, gaze skimming the edge of the pool. “What are you going to write for Jess?” </p><p>

“I don’t know,” Cas deadpans, “Given you were so quick to volunteer me, I assumed you had some ideas.” </p><p>

“Should have one of those clickbait-y titles. <em>Ten things I learned from my fiance’ the trauma survivor</em>.” </p><p>
“The first one would be ‘it’s dorky to use a fountain pen’.” </p><p>
“See, that’s perfect,” Dean says, “Cause it treats me like a real life <em>actual person</em>, not some --- I don’t know, series of things that happened.” </p><p>
“Will you be continuing your exercise fad?” </p><p>
“Uh,” Dean says, wrinkling his nose slightly, “Dunno about that.” </p><p>
“Ah, normal service has been resumed,” Castiel smiles. </p><p>
“Maybe I will,” Dean says, “Do look pretty damn good, all muscled and shit.” </p><p>
“You’re breathtaking,” Cas returns, as if that’s the kind of thing people just say to each other and actually <em>mean,</em> “But that’s always been true.” </p><p>

“Yeah, well, you’re not so shabby yourself,” </p><p>
“Thank you,” Castiel breathes, pulling Dean mostly into his lap. One of these days, one of their Deckchairs is going to give way on them, because they’re older than sin and not really made for two grown ass men to make out on. “How do you feel?”  </p><p>

He feels…. he feels a little like he wants to go and see Alistair in his maximum security prison cell, just to stand there in front of him, free and fucking powerful, to lift up his shirt and say <em> whose the bitch now?</em> More than that, though, he wants not to give him another goddamn second of his brain space for this rest of his life.  </p><p>

And — he knows, really, that that’s not going to happen. There are always going to be bad days and bad nights, but they’re less than they’ve ever been, and they’re easier to shake than ever.  </p><p>

Cas made up the master bedroom, earlier. It’s the room they ever first slept together in. It was here that he showed Cas his scars to explain some of why everything happened and then fell asleep on the other side of the bed. He won’t be able to do that, anymore. He’d have to use his words to explain, but he has a lot more words in his arsenal than he ever has previously. </p><p>

“I feel,” Dean says, curling a hand around the back of Cas’ neck to pull him in for a proper kiss, with bite and heat and intention, because he <em> wants Cas</em>. Sex was off the table in all but the ‘best case scenario’ version of events and there’s a chance that it’s a bad idea, but Dean feels <em> good</em> right now. Powerful and free. Electric and strong and <em> attractive</em> , and some risks are worth taking. “Like the motherfucking Batman.” </p><p>

Cas doesn’t question it when Dean takes his hand and leads him upstairs, and it’s perfect, perfect, perfect.  </p><p>

* </p><p>

They eat breakfast with their backs against the ‘cliff edge’ on the beach. For some reason, Cas had a book and sunglasses in the impala, so even though they’re both wearing yesterday’s clothes with their damn underwear inside out (there are definite drawbacks to spontaneity), Cas is at least prepared for the beach with reading material. </p><p>

“We should get married here,” Dean says. He’s mostly just people watching (it’s April and the beach is quiet, so he’s mostly Castiel watching) and regularly glancing down at his skin to make sure that his tattoo is still there and smiling like a total asshole, but he doesn’t really care. Sam responded to the picture Dean sent him of it this morning with a bunch of stuff he probably picked up in Art History 101, but Dean roughly translated to ‘it looks good’, and he feels just as <em>good</em> about his whole damn life as he did yesterday.</p><p>

“You said that it was cheesy,” Cas says, without looking up from his book. They took out some of the beach blankets that are now kept in these storage containers /  foot rests that Dean basically loves and Cas completely vetoed for their own home, and they feel almost too nice to get sandy. He’ll take it, though, with Cas stretched out on a blanket next to him, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking something like relaxed.</p><p>

“Cas, we’ve known each other since we were fucking kids and we’re gonna grow old together. We are cheesy. You were right. This is — here is perfect.”</p><p>

“Okay,”</p><p>

“We can do it this summer,” Dean continues, rearranging the scrunched up blanket he’s been using for a pillow under his head and stretching out his toes in the sand.</p><p>

“If you want.”</p><p>

“Hey, we can invite Jess. Introduce her to Sammy.”</p><p>

“You’re incorrigible,” Cas says, “And I’m reading.”</p><p>

“Jesh, sorry,” Dean throws back, “Just our freakin’ wedding I’m talking about here.”</p><p>

“There are four pages until I have finished this chapter,” Castiel says, all prim proper. Dean sits up and pours himself another coffee from the flask, pausing to take in the ‘Castiel, aged 7’ scrawled on the side of his mug. God, Cas is cute. Little beekeeper Cas and the beautiful adult who’s doing his best to focus on his damn reading, while Dean talks crap about whatever comes into his head mostly just to be a pain in the ass.</p><p>


The sea is calm, today. They’ve got nearly blue skies, a gentle breeze and, behind them, the Beach House is perfect. Her bones are a little worn, but the fresh coat of paint is a bright, crisp white and almost beautiful in the weak April sun.</p><p>

Dean drinks his coffee, breathes, and watches the waves.</p><p>

<em>The opposite of worthless</em>. </p><p>

“Should head off soon straight after lunch, if we’re gonna make it back to Bobby’s for his Sunday roast.”</p><p>

Castiel isn’t listening to him anymore, but their feet are touching just off the edge of the blanket, and thats just fine.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wanted to leave you guys with something a little lighter than the last one... so here we go! I hope quarantine season is treating everyone okay.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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